Two books, two scars.
Some books are born from inspiration, others from sheer necessity. My first two, Where Fire Sleeps and What the Crystal Could Not Hold , were written from a wound—a place where darkness was not just the setting, but the atmosphere I breathed. I wrote these stories during the darkest time of my life, when depression was a fog and finding a reason to get up each day was its own battle. Writing was not a hobby, but a way to survive, a way to keep from vanishing completely. Even now, as the world outside remains uncertain, storytelling has become the thin thread of light that pierces the shadow. Imagining new worlds, shaping characters, trying to make lyricism matter more than silence—these things have offered me moments of peace, small reprieves where my mind could rest. If I am not writing, I am dreaming up what story might save me tomorrow. Where Fire Sleeps is a novel of ruins and names that carry too much weight, of wars that never truly end. Its characters move through ash,...